13

The cargo plane had jumped before diving into the dark waters of the Euphrates River and had been shot in the air by Kurdish militia while floating.

He had the very important box he was carrying in his hand, and when the body slowly landed on the warm ground, flies had already swarmed. In the hours that had passed in the hot ground, which is unique to all southern cities, the body had cooked thoroughly, and the foul smell and chemicals it had spread around had an effect similar to a dinner bell for the flies in the air. Although the remains of the body were now covered with a sheet, even a tiny piece of tissue that remained exposed was enough for the garbage collectors to get the message. Since the bacteria in the body had rapidly reproduced in the seconds after the heart stopped, decay had spread rapidly.

The cypress trees planted along the river were the only green areas in the area.

Since the weather was very hot, the smell had spread to an area one meter in diameter by the time the militia reached the body.

Since the cargo man had been shot in the head with a long-barreled weapon near the landing, pieces of his skull had spread over him. A piece of her skull had fallen onto the warm ground before her body,

pieces of tissue had stuck to her pants.

Jiyan's stomach had always been strong, she was used to the smell of dead bodies, she had fought with Turkish soldiers in the mountains for years and seen many dead bodies, but now even she had paused for a moment, closed her eyes and clenched her fists, angry at herself for this weakness she had shown. Don't lose yourself. Don't lose yourself.

She knew very well that the spotlight was always on her as the only female fighter of the guerrilla in the PKK Organization and the favorite of leader Öcalan. With every success she achieved, she would deserve the honor of spending a night with the leader and she knew very well how to please her man until the morning using her femininity.

She had also learned that every mistake she had made up until now had been noted down. She was aware that she was envied by the other female guerrillas.

For example, although her partner Berivan seemed like her closest friend, she knew that she was dangerous.

That morning, she had woken up early in the cell house, had already had breakfast, and had taken refuge in the car and turned on the air conditioning to wait for her nausea to pass. She had conveyed that a plane belonging to the regime had entered the Kurdistan region and that the leader had ordered it to be destroyed.

But Berivan had no right to succumb to nausea. Since she was the most striking law enforcement officer on the scene, the crowd behind the security cordon had stopped and watched her every move and every detail about her with curiosity. She knew that she did not look thirty at all, so she took great care to display an authoritarian attitude. What she lost in height, she tried to make up for with her fearless gaze and upright stance. She had learned the art of not giving up control at a crime scene over the years. Her biggest dream was to be a guest at the leader's house and offer him her womanhood for the night.

When she was 15, she ran away from home and joined the organization when she realized that she would marry a man who was as old as her father. She wanted to give up the virginity she had been protecting for years.

But this heat was even testing her determination. He was constantly covered in sweat, and even his own body was disgusted, especially when he crossed the border and spent days in a cave to attack Turkish outposts in the north.

When he first arrived, he was wearing his usual jacket and trousers; his hair was also combed and neat. But now his jacket was gone, his blouse was wrinkled, and the humidity in the air had caused his dark hair to fall apart. He was constantly under attack from smells, flies, and piercing sunlight. There were a lot of details he had to pay attention to at the same time. And all eyes were on him. His partner Jiyan was always watching him.

The noises coming from behind had caught his attention. A man in a shirt and tie was arguing with a patrol officer from the organization.

"Look, I have to get to the action, okay? I'm already an hour late.

And as if it wasn't enough to put the security cordon around my car,

you're now telling me that I can't get in my car. This is my car, man!"

"You can't enter the scene of the action, sir." "the regime's plane was shot down, our brothers were successful!"

"The truth of this has not yet been decided."

"Are we going to wait here all day for you to understand this? You don't understand even words. There is no one around who hasn't heard!"

The journalist turned to the man whose face was soaked with sweat. It was eleven thirty and the sun was high up and had begun to burn with all its might.

"What exactly did you hear, sir?" the militant asked.

The man frowned. "Whatever everyone else heard." "A big noise."

"Yes. It was about seven thirty. I was just leaving the hotel. When I looked out the window, I saw a plane descending rapidly in smoke and noticed a man jumping out of the plane with a parachute.

Group leader Jiyan reported that the operation was successful. You can report it on the evening news on Rudaw.

Did you record the plane crash?

Yes, of course, said the reporter, I saw the man lying down with my binoculars. This is already a troubled area.

When Turkey gets permission from America, they launch cross-border operations and attacks.

"Hey, can I take my car out now?" the man asked. "That green Ford over there is mine."

The radio

I spoke to the leader of the den and he let you go to the operation area.

"The car with brain fragments stuck to the hood and the Toyota jeep with anti-aircraft guns mounted on the back had already arrived at the center.

The body was right next to the anti-aircraft guns.

Did you get a record?

"Yes."

Do the guerrillas have any information about the plane or this man?

They don't even know who he is." The journalist continued to examine his surroundings without looking at him. His skin was shining with sweat under the few white hairs that remained on his head, and he looked older and more tired than usual. As he tried to get up, he reached out his hand and asked for help. As the militant reached out his hand and helped the man, he felt the creaking of tired bones and arthritis.

Originally from Aleppo, this old militant - those who were 40 years old in the organization were called old - could not warm up to the journalist in a suit, and the journalist could not get used to the man's preventing him from going to the scene and his formality. The only common point between them was the joy of the regime's man being killed.

But now, as he helped him to his feet, he felt sorry for the man's old age and suddenly remembered his own grandfather. He had always been his grandfather's favorite grandson.

Perhaps the old man had seen his old arrogance and stubbornness in him. Here he would help him to get up from his chair, and each time he would feel his paralyzed hand lying motionless in his own. Even tough guys like him succumb to time and turn into brittle bones and painful joints. The YPG militant now saw the same mood in the journalist who took out his handkerchief and tried to wipe his sweaty forehead.

"What a great way to end my career," the man said. "Tell me, are you coming to my retirement party, comrade Jiyan?"

"So... what party did you say?"

"That party you were planning to surprise me with." The man sighed.

"Yes, I'm coming," he finally said, unable to resist.

"Hah. I knew I could only learn this from you. Will it be next week?"

"Two weeks from now. But you didn't hear it from me, okay?" "Good for you to tell me." He turned and looked at the asphalt. "I don't like surprises."

"So what are we dealing with? Hit and run?"

"I think this is the point of impact." The man looked at the wide blood trails on the road.

Then he looked up at the body lying on the pavement three or four meters away.

"The impact first happened here, then spread all the way there, right?" the man asked.

"That's what it looks like."

"It must be a pretty big anti-aircraft gun to be so effective."

"It's not a truck," Jiyan said. We mounted a small pickup truck on the back. Then, without saying another word, he started walking, his eyes on the road.

The man followed, swatting the flies with his hand. The man stopped about ten meters away and pointed to a dark stain on the pavement.

"There are brain fragments here too," he said.

"Couldn't a truck have done this?" he asked.

"No. Not a truck, not a car."

"And the marks on the victim's shirt?" he straightened up. His eyes scanned the street, the sidewalks, the buildings.

"Did you notice anything about this crime scene?"

"Other than a dead man with his brains scattered around?"

"Look at the impact site." He pointed to the spot where he had been crouching and examining. "See how the body parts are scattered?"

"Yes. Scattered in four directions. The impact point is right in the middle."

"That's right."

"This is a busy area," Jiyan said. "The comrades were going around this corner very fast. Besides, there are marks on the victim."

"Let's go take another look at these marks then."

When they returned to the body, Berivan joined them. The man had finally decided to get out of the car. He looked pale and embarrassed.

"Wow," he grumbled.

"Are you okay?" Jiyan asked.

"I guess I caught a stomach cold. Or my period."

"Or something like that."

He actually liked the Rudaw reporter.

He was always cheerful and never whining, so he was sorry to see his pride hurt like this.

He patted her on the back and smiled affectionately, motherly. He was a childlike man, and even a murderer like Jiyan, who killed young Turkish soldiers, could inspire motherly feelings. "Next time, let's get you a bag or something," he said.

"Actually," she said, walking after him, "I've been with the leader, but I'm not pregnant, so I guess I caught a stomach cold."

They had come to the body, grunting, he crouched down on the ground, lifted the cover on the body, turned pale and took a step back.

Jiyan. could hardly keep herself from doing the same.

The body had taken many bullets right in the belly and was slightly separated. The upper part, which was wearing a beige linen shirt, was in the east-west line.

Tell me that he was dead before he fell."

"There is such a possibility," he said. "My guess is that he slipped and fell when the landing gear was deployed. Of course, if it was a foreign expedition."

"Of course," he said. "How many people are trying to escape from this country?" He looked at the dark skin of the dead man. "Let's say he was coming from somewhere in America..."

Intelligence had stated that he was carrying a very important document, but we couldn't find it.

"Then he must have gone at an altitude of at least ten thousand meters," he said.

"There is no pressure adjustment on the landing gear. There